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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329696">The Vorovskaya Roza</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave'>SkinSlave</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reimagined Classics [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marilyn Manson (Band), The Cask of Amontillado - Edgar Allan Poe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Buried Alive, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Minor Violence, Murder, Revenge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:00:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A reimagining of The Cask of Amontillado in a Marilyn Manson AU, circa 2007.</p>
<p>TW: curse words, unflattering depictions, vague crimes, crucifixion-ish, claustrophobia.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reimagined Classics [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Vorovskaya Roza</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I put up with Manson's shit as best as I could, but when he crossed that line, I couldn't let it go. You know me well enough to know I didn't say anything. He'd get his. But it wouldn't be enough just to hurt him. I had to be patient and do it right. It wouldn't be justice if I let it ruin me. And I couldn't let him twist it and make himself the victim. He had to know that he'd wronged me. So I acted like everything was fine, gave him no hint of trouble. He couldn't know that the smiles I gave him were at the thought of him bursting into flames.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had a weakness - Manson - though he was otherwise smart and respected, in his way. He saw himself as a connoisseur of the weird. Few men actually are. They fake it to suit their careers, to impress other shock rockers and horror directors. He was a fraud in a lot of ways, like the rest of them. But his interest in oddities was real. We were alike that way. I was drawn to the dark and strange and had a collection of my own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was late, or early, and New Year's eve was in full swing when I met him. He came in for a sloppy kiss and I could smell the alcohol. The man was dressed the part. He wore a smart black suit and silver tie, makeup thick and smudged a bit. I was so pleased to see him that way that I let him linger too close, too long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Marilyn, darling," I said, "I'm glad I ran into you. You're in such good spirits. Listen, I've gotten my hands on a dry-mounted Russian prison tattoo, a wire rose with a quincunx, and I wonder if it's authentic."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bullshit," he said. "A Russian? Here?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I have my doubts," I replied. "I shouldn't have bought it without consulting you. I just didn't want to miss out on the deal."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"A Russian tattoo."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Allegedly."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That's what they told you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Since you're busy, I figured I'd go see Phil Spearman and see if he'll have a look."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Spearman? He couldn't tell you if it's a fake."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, he does know tattoos."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Come on. Let's go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Where?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"To your place."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mar, no… I can't impose. You're obviously busy and-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm not busy. Come on."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, it's not just that. It's hidden in the basement and I know you hate dark, tight spaces."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck claustrophobia. I don't care. A Russian rose? Babe, you've been had. And Spearman… Spearman couldn't tell you if it was human or pig skin."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabbed onto my arm, repeating more of the same. I let him hurry me along. We caught a cab and were soon at my expansive new house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one was home. I told my assistant that I'd be gone till mid-afternoon, and under no circumstances was she to leave. I knew that would be enough to guarantee that she'd run off to one party or another. I grabbed a couple of flashlights from the den, gave one to Manson, and explained that there weren't lights down there yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He followed me through my house and down the stairs. He stumbled just a little. When we got to the bottom, he swung his flashlight around uneasily. I could see the film of vodka over his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look," I said firmly, "I know you're uncomfortable. I worry about you. Let's go back. You can relax and party and I'll just call Spearman another time."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck Spearman! A basement is not gonna kill me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fine, but… here…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pulled out a small flask I kept on my hip and held it out to him. He took it, nodding, and said something about a toast. He drank too much, then passed it back. I took a sip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"This house is fucking huge," he said, waving a hand. "The basement's probably huge too. You could turn it into a catacombs."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I led him through the dark, weaving between shelves and crates. The farther we went, the more cramped the space became. The flask had warmed me. I thought Manson must be sweating. I stopped and touched his arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't realize how tight things were packed down here. Let's go back. Your anxiety-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's nothing," he said. "I'm going. But let me have another drink."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I offered the flask and he drained it. He tossed it behind himself and it clattered among the boxes. He swayed a bit and I steadied him on my arm. His glazed eyes wandered and settled on the area ahead of us. New wall studs were lined up, ready to be covered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're turning this into rooms?" he asked. "How are contractors even getting in here?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're not," I replied. "I'm doing it myself."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not with those nails, babe."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pulled a handful of 3" screws out of the inner pocket of my jacket. He let go of me and backed up a few steps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Bullshit… Whatever. Let's see your fake tattoo."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I put the screws back into my pocket and smiled as sweetly as I could stand. We walked on in the glow of our flashlights. On the far end of the basement, one wall had been completed with a lovely arched doorway. I led him through it and down, along the outer wall. In the corner there was another unfinished doorway leading to a small recess, just deep enough to be a room. Manson shone his flashlight into it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Nice hiding place, huh?" I asked. "I'm thinking of using it as a display area. Go on, it's inside. I mean, Spearman-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Spearman's an ass," he interrupted, stumbling forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stayed right behind him. When he hit the foundation wall, about 4 feet in, he looked around dumbly. While he was busy searching with his flashlight, I took hold of his shoulders, turned him, and pushed him back against the concrete. A chain, anchored into the wall, slid around his neck tightly. I padlocked it into place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's so close in here," I said, my hand on his chest. "I'm sure you're anxious. Don't you want to go back? No? Then let me at least make you as comfortable as I can."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The tattoo…" he muttered, still unaware of his situation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes. The tattoo."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I retrieved an electric screwdriver from the floor outside and slotted a screw into the magnetic bit. I took his hand. He was as limp as I'd ever seen him. I lifted his arm until it was outstretched, positioned the driver, and quickly drove the screw through his wrist and into the concrete anchor behind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cried out, but was still drunk enough to be distracted by a kiss. Amazingly, he let me take his other wrist. In a moment, it was screwed to the wall as well… my own personal Jesus, atoning. He gave a low moan and shook his head. Maybe the booze was wearing off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I'd stashed my supplies elsewhere in the basement. When I returned with them, I busied myself at the doorway, laying slats between the exposed studs and screwing them into place. He cried out again. He sounded sober, more or less. I laid another board, and another. He started to move around, stomping the floor with his stupid giant boots. I sat down and listened, drinking in his struggle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he fell silent again, I resumed my work. The wall soon reached chest-height and I looked it over with my flashlight. It was perfect, practiced. I shined the light into the room. It landed on his face and he screamed. It startled me and I stepped back. But as he continued to shriek, impotent, I returned to the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I replied to his voice with my own, echoing through the basement. At first it only encouraged him. But I pulled my screams from my joy. They were longer, louder. After a few minutes, his terror cooled and he went quiet. I pulled a step ladder close and continued the work up to the ceiling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I didn't know the time, but I eventually had one board left. I lifted it into place. As I dug a screw from my pocket, I heard a laugh. It was soft, sad, and followed by Manson's quavering voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Great joke, babe! Damn! We'll have a great laugh over this at the chateau. I'll buy the drinks! You can brag about your new find!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"The tattoo," I said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Exactly! The tattoo. It's late, but I'm sure our friends are there, probably wondering where we are. Let's go catch up to them, have a few drinks."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sure," I said flatly. "Let's go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What the fuck? Dita!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah... What the fuck?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stood there, waiting to hear him again. Nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Marilyn?" There was no answer and I was impatient. "Brian!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pulled the board down and shoved my flashlight through the opening. It slipped out of my hand and rattled on the floor. I could see the faint glow. I could hear his boots shifting. I felt uncomfortable, nervous. Fucking basement…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I pressed the board in place and screwed it down. Over the top, I layered a sheet of drywall. Joint compound and tape made it look exactly like the rest of the wall. I left it that way for months, until the California heat dried everything out and killed the smell. A coat of paint and a set of shelves made it a fine display area.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And for fifty years now, we've both been at peace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As I understand it, a tattoo like the one described would indicate that the wearer was in prison before they turned 18, served extensive time, and would never be reformed. </p>
<p>Vorovskaya Roza means Thief's Rose, according to my translator. I figured, since I needed a whole new title, I'd go for an obvious double-meaning. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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